erican ear they
sound, "The Waves rule Britannia," "God save the Common People!" Every
shouldered musket shall be a vote; the uniform shall represent community
of interest and sentiment. The rhythm of the living column is the march
of England's steady justice into coal-mines and factories, Church and
State.

For this reason we ought to cultivate pacific relations with the
Government of England. Beware lest the question of the Alabama break
loose to prey upon the true commerce of mankind! A war would put back
the people of England for fifty years. When England is at war, the
people are apt to rally to the Government. The island is so small, that,
when a feeling once gets started, it sweeps all men away into an
inconsiderate and almost savage support of the public honor. If Toryism
cannot secure to itself the benefit of a war upon some point that
involves an English prejudice or interest, it cannot prevent the rising
strength of the people from going into opposition. Dissenters of every
class are emptying the pews of the Establishment; liberal thinkers now
hold University fellowships only to avoid surrendering all the ground to
a reactionary party. The abolition of the stamp-tax has freed the daily
press, and expensive newspapers no longer represent little cliques, but
belong to the people of England, who take their pennyworth of honest
criticism every morning; and the best of these newspapers have been for
three years on the side of Northern republicanism. This is the instinct
of human nature, which knows its rights and hungers to possess them.

We are maintaining half a million of men in the field, half a million
outlets of our heart's blood, because we believe that inclusion is
better than exclusion. The nation's instinct for that truth has gone
into camp. It is a belief that the life of the Republic depends upon
including every State, and including every citizen, and including every
emigrant, and including every slave, in the right to live, labor, and be
happy, and excluding none. We feel that the blood we lose in fighting
for that plain maxim of republican economy will make again fast enough
when the maxim has prevailed. The weaver of Lancashire, who plays out
his hunger in London streets, and our seamen who make the weaver wait
while they watch three thousand miles of seaboard, are both listening to
the rote of the same great truth, as it dashes on the shores of Time,
and brings bracing air to the people who are si